


#whatmovesyoumakesyou

by heavensfallingaroundus, soft_science



Series: #sponcon [1]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: #bananacrisis2020, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Montblanc - Freeform, Richard Madden in a kimono, sponcon as erotica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science/pseuds/soft_science
Summary: WE ONLY HAVE ONE BANANAThe story of a Sunday morning, a Montblanc pen, and a grocery list.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Series: #sponcon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935931
Comments: 40
Kudos: 40





	#whatmovesyoumakesyou

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello, good evening
> 
> Just a disclaimer saying that this is written in deepest love for both these idiots, and that we don't begrudge them doing promotional content: it's part of their living, and Taron is genuinely a legit pro. Richard, on the other hand, is a whore ~~for a Land Rover~~.

It really is the most beautiful pen he’s ever owned, Taron thinks, as he puts the finishing touches to the drawing he’s been hard at work on for five full minutes. It’s a dick. Just a dick. That has somehow just come out of a Montblanc pen. God, he loves his new gig. He almost wants to post the drawing on Instagram, to flex a bit. You know. #providedby. #whatmovesyoumakesyou. Except, this is exactly the sort of thing Hugh has advised him against. Thank goodness for mentorship.

“You gonna be any longer, in there? I think you’ve depleted several ecosystems across the globe already.”

The shower has been running for at least thirty minutes. Richard’s taking his time today—and that’s fine, it’s Sunday, and they’ve really not got much on, except venturing to the shops. He does like to tease though, especially when it comes to Richard’s grooming habits.

“As usual,” Richard replies, from inside the shower. “I’m gunnae be as long as I want. What are _you_ doing that’s so important, anyways?”

“Just testing out my new pen,” Taron chirps out, turning it over in his hand and feeling _expensive_. “Writing my memoir. I’m gonna have a whole chapter on your way-too-long showers, in there.”

Richard laughs, not quite loud enough that it’s meant to be heard. "Come on Taron, we need food!" As though he hasn’t delayed the whole endeavour well into the afternoon with his showering, and what will surely be another _hour_ of styling and choosing the right all-black, T-shirt/jeans/belt combo. "Are ye gonna make that shopping list or not? Use that fecking pen for something useful?" 

“Oh, fuck off, will you not,” Taron says. “Always spoiling the fun. Alright, alright, whatever,” he says, putting away his sketchbook, but not after having contemplated his masterpiece for a good ten seconds. #whatmovesyoumakesyou, indeed.

He picks up the crappy notebook they use for shopping lists from its usual spot next to the kettle, sighs loudly and quite dramatically for no-one’s benefit but the knife block and the cutting boards in front of him, then shouts to Richard, “What do we need, then, princess? Any special requests?"

"Definitely milk," Richard shouts. The way he says “milk” has always fascinated Taron. The I is not an I at all; it sounds more like an open E. Two years together, and he still hasn’t gotten over the brogue. Very good. "Why do we have tae do this like this, by the way?” Richard asks. “Can't you just come here, so I don' have to shout?"

"I need a _surface_ to write on," Taron replies, matter of factly. _Obviously_ , Jesus. "Also, you can just take normal human being showers that last less than 45 minutes, you know."

"Alright, nevermind, then. And eggs, too!"

"Eggs, noted. Oh, and,” he pauses, overly excited at the sudden thought he’s just had. “Are you finally allowed to have bread? Shall I get flour, too?" he asks, daring to hope. They haven’t had bread in… Well, _Richard_ hasn’t had bread in six months. Taron has. He gets a small loaf of sourdough every couple of weeks, then eats it alone in the night, when Richard’s asleep. Like a fucking criminal. Erasing the evidence—floury fingertips, mostly—is the hardest job of all.

There’s a pause… and then the sweet surrender in Richard’s voice is palpable. “Aye. Fuck it, who knows when I'll be working again—might as well."

Taron grins. _Finally_ they can make bread together, like a true gay power couple. He needs to message Hugh and get him to mail that sourdough starter he offered earlier in the summer. Is it legal to send bread-making goop by international post? #whatprovesyoubakesyou. God, he’s in fine form today—no wonder he’s a Mark-Maker. With two capital M’s.

(He also writes down "bread", because he knows homemade bread will be an unmitigated disaster at first.)

(Oh, and "cheese”.) 

(Because, duh, if they're gonna have bread, they need cheese. He can already picture it: a bottle of Bordeaux, Gruyère, their likely inedible homemade bread, and then the nice bread from the bakery, which they’ll actually eat.)

"And write down San Pellegrino, too," Richard cries out again. The shower seems to be off, now, thank God.

Taron registers what Richard just asked for and rolls his eyes. Fuck's sake, Richard and his sparkling water. He needs to buy the stupid man a Sodastream and stop wasting plastic.

"Yes, love of my life, whatever you want," he says, sarcastic, as he begrudgingly writes down "mineral water" on his list.

Then he’s struck, suddenly, by the memory of a tender croissant he's had from a very specific bakery in Aber. That’s vividly flaky, can’t let that slip away. He writes down "MORE croissants", and underlines it for good measure. No need to consult Richard on that one.

"Oh and don’ forget," Richard says, finally emerging from the bathroom. Taron gets a good look at him, then. Wrapped in a luxurious midnight blue kimono, hair wet, chest on show. Taron blinks a couple of times. No, Richard is definitely a _real thing_ in his life. Wow. "We also need more green juice," Richard adds with an emphatic wave of his finger, getting water all over the floor as he moves closer.

Taron gets up to kiss him, lingering to touch Richard’s chest and play with the few silver hairs interspersed there. His other hand is in Richard’s curls, which are also very much wet. He smells like something manly and new. Cedar, cypress, some other sexy plant. Something Taron definitely needs to steal.

“Yes, yes, good morning,” Richard says, against his lips. “I love you too. Thanks for agreeing to go along with my bottled water whims.” 

“And the green juice, too. That stuff is _foul_ , Dickie.”

“But it’s so good for you!”

Yeah, yeah, whatever. Taron goes back to the kitchen table, sits down, picks up his Montblanc, flashes Richard a grin worthy of his latest GQ shoot. _Moved_ by Richard’s request for swamp water, he writes down "MORE green juice" on his notepad. He’s embodying this slogan, today, indeed.

Just as he’s admiring his wonderful handwriting (that isn’t really all that nice, but that this pen somehow makes ten times better) he’s distracted by the sound of the fridge opening. He turns, and gets to admire the curve of Richard’s bum as he’s bent over, head inside the fridge, looking for something on the bottom shelf.

He’s about to make a comment about it—the arse, obviously—but he’s cut off by Richard groaning, loud and histrionic, then emerging from the fridge holding one banana.

"I need two bananas for my smoothie.” He’s deadpan, looking at Taron as though he’s meant to understand the gravity of this statement. Taron just blinks expectantly at him. “Taron. We only have one banana."

Taron does a dramatic shocked face. "Oh my god, babe. We only have one banana.” He brings a hand slowly to his mouth, channeling quiet despair. It’s a nice thing he does occasionally, treats Dickie to some of that Golden Globe magic. "Are you going to be okay?"

Richard smiles and rolls his eyes very, very hard. "Of course I'm gunnae be okay—but _please_ , can ye write down bananas on your fecking list?"

"You really do love a banana, don't you, Madden." It’s hard not to raise an eyebrow, so he just lets it creep up. Cocked. There, that ought to make things clear without actually having to hold up his beautifully inked drawing from earlier. The shops have inched lower on his list of today’s priorities now that Richard’s here, still wet, charmingly tetchy and smelling as good as he looks.

Richard cocks an eyebrow back in answer. Good thing they’re both fluent in this language. 

"Not as much as you, Duckie.” 

Alright, so they’re definitely on the same page this morning. Lovely. 

Taron writes "WE ONLY HAVE ONE BANANA” down on his notepad, with a level of urgency that he can only hope reflects the _crisis_ in which they currently find themselves.

Richard peeks over his shoulder and inspects the whole list. “Alright, fuck you, I see you’ve got it all down then. Very good.” He leans to kiss Taron’s ear, then neck, then ear again. Then there are teeth involved, and it’s almost perfect. Taron reaches up and gets a hand in Richard’s damp curls again, positioning him exactly where he should be.

“What time is it,” Richard murmurs in his ear, hot breath raising goosebumps on the nape of Taron’s neck. 

“Not sure, let me check…” Taron raises a wrist and squints manfully at the face of his 1858 Geosphere with sapphire domed crystal face and fluted titanium crown (retailing for $5,800, now sold out on montblanc.com). “Here, or in LA?”

“Here, you incredible feckin’ bampot,” Richard’s smirk is audible, his eyeroll tangible in the air.

“Well I just wanted to be sure. I think…” Taron squints some more, holding the watch away and then bringing it closer again. “Yeah, I _think_ it’s time for me to suck your dick.” He taps the face of the watch gently. “Yeah, definitely. This thing doesn’t lie.”

Richard’s robe is already half fallen open, cock prodding out between the edges of the soft blue fabric. Getting a hand around it is lovely; getting his lips around is better. This, plus a croissant eventually, and this day will really be a success.

“We just need tae get to the shops love— _fuck_ that’s good—” 

Taron takes him deep, lovingly pressing his nose into Richard’s pubes as if to say “shut up, fuck my face, and forget about the damn groceries.” 

“ _God_ yes, take it—” Richard’s hips twitch in spite of his clear efforts to keep still, and Taron gets two hands on his arse cheeks and pulls him in to encourage it. “I just... Fuck, I _want_ — _”_

There it is now, Richard rocking into him sweetly, that perfect edge of choking but not quite gagging. 

Taron’s inordinately proud of how he does, indeed, take it, and how quickly he brings Richard off just by swallowing a few times around the head of his cock—thank you, good morning and good night. As Richard’s coming, his hand grazes Taron’s cheek tenderly, he gasps out more endearments, and then groans when Taron pulls off with a wet and truly filthy sound. Taron gazes up to take in Richard’s wrecked appearance, robe hanging open and panting, and swallows in a meaningful (and perhaps just a tad overly theatrical) way. Licks his lips for good measure, just to enjoy how Richard’s face scrunches up in self-conscious delight, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he rises to his feet to kiss what’s left into Richard’s mouth.

“Mmm,” Taron moans, “Babe, you taste like a dream.” Which isn’t true, he doesn’t particularly adore the taste of come, but _Richard_ adores the idea of him adoring it—and that’s how love works sometimes.

“You dirty liar,” Richard whispers against his lips between kisses, giggling a little, so pleased at this little performance. “Dirty. It’s embarrassing.” 

“You like it!” Taron smiles brilliantly, resting his bum on the edge of the table and letting Richard crowd him against it. 

“Tell you what I’d like,” Richard goes deadly serious. “I’d like to get to the shops, get back here, and then fuck you—” He grabs Taron’s wrist and pulls the watch up so he can see it, “—for the rest of the afternoon, on into evening.” 

Taron stares into his piercing blue eyes, and they have a moment of mutual smouldering. Sometimes he wonders if the levels of handsomeness in the room are actually safe, when they get like this. If someone walked in on them, they might actually get hurt. Spontaneously sprain an ankle, or just have a mild cardiac event. It’s a big responsibility. 

“Did you know,” Taron half-whispers, “that this watch is waterproof down to a hundred meters?” 

“No I did not,” Richard answers in a similarly smokey half-whisper. “Tha’s an amazing luxury product.”

“What I find,” Taron muses as Richard runs a hand down his chest and then south toward the waistband of his joggers. “Hello, hi—so what _I_ find is that when you have a luxurious product, it really reminds you to—” He swallows a little noise as Richard’s hand closes around his leaking cock. “ _Fuck_ you that’s nice—to exercise discipline— _oh yes_ , in your creative life.”

“What does that even mean,” Richard murmurs in his ear, “that’s total shite, man. Fuck my hand, come on…”

“No it’s not,” Taron gasps, “You just don’t, _fuck_ , you don’t appreciate order, and how it begets creativity, oh my god you’re lovely, I love you—”

Their lips crash together and he can’t quite finish the thought, but it’s something very intelligent that cohesively ties together his personal passions with the simple elegance of—oh fuck it, he’s coming in tight, sweet little thrusts against the palm of Richard’s hand. Fuck Montblanc, fuck bananas, fuck it all.

Draped loosely against Richard Madden’s muscled frame, Taron feels much like a luxurious midnight blue japanese robe, except with more of an air of sexual satiety and smug pride.

“I’ve made my mark,” he pronounces, against Richard’s shoulder.

“On my feckin’ kehmono.” Richard’s voice sounds warm, far happier than his words alone make him out to be. “Come on love, let’s get dressed, pile in one of the Land Rovers and head into town. You can move, up you go now.”

“And then come home and bake bread, and fuck.”

“Yes, duck. And then come home and bake bread and fuck.”

Well. That’s another Sunday afternoon sorted, then.

**Author's Note:**

> If someone by any chance hasn't read the wonderful GQ #spon article that Baby Boy has just done for Montblanc, [here it is](https://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/gq-hype/bc/taron-egerton-tetris-montblanc). 
> 
> Also, [here's the Instagram post](https://www.instagram.com/p/CESAqR-g5nU/) where that fantastic grocery list comes from.
> 
> WE ONLY HAVE ONE BANANA


End file.
